For at least a year, the desire to write a song of Scheherazade has been strong. It's funny to say such a thing, for it almost supposes I didn't have time to get to it. I did. And yet, often I have to find my way through a story, through and back again before I can write a song. It's not even about reading the story, but sorting the shuffling thoughts it brings. The why of my fascination with it. Often I ponder while I drive or in the space between sleep and wakefulness, random images rooting themselves through the endless words that fall through my mind. Then, one day, my fingers tangle themselves into a melody and my voice feels strong buffered against, words tumble from my lips as if they were Athena herself, birthed full of their own new glory. Or sometimes they feel more like the smallest pebble on a path, found, round and smooth with their own presumed use. It happens like this to me, and yet I am always surprised by it. In this case doubly surprised for Scheherazade is not to be her voice but the voice of the voracious and seemingly wicked King who would marry only to murder his bride the next day. The voice, it seems to chose me, when I try to push other ways, it just never works, so I sit and write and it is his voice that comes to me, not hers. hmmm. ~laugh~ We shall see where this leads....